


Sharpened and Clean

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks down at his stupid arms that are still fixing themselves and wonders if it's too early to saw off the hand part of the cast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpened and Clean

Dean's pretty lucky. No, that's a lie, he's ridiculously freakin' lucky. Because he's spent considerably more of his life in good enough shape to hunt than he has nursing broken bones, stab wounds and life threatening crush injuries. Sam too, because for all that they get banged up _constantly_ it's rarely so bad that they have to stay holed up in a motel, wearing plaster, or avoiding the irritating as hell tear of stitches.

Dean figures he's making up for lost time. Since his left forearm is currently in plaster and his right hand is bandaged all to hell, due to getting the skin nearly ripped off two fingers. The combined efforts of a graveyard fence and his meeting a headstone at speed. He's kind of pissed because this is his first broken bone in his new 'dragged out of hell and remade by angels' body. It's not like he was trying to keep it pristine or anything but there's something irritating about it. Like he voided the warranty - and he did not just compare his body to an appliance.

More irritating, is the fact that his arm itches, and he needs a shave, _badly._ He stares at himself in the mirror and then glares at his reflection. Because it's the hideous wild man beard versus Sam touching his face in a way that he guarantees he'll find uncomfortable-making.

Dean's been letting the beard win for three days now. It's getting ridiculous.

"Sam...Sam!" There's no sound from the room. Sam escaped the excitement in the graveyard with nothing more debilitating than a cut through his eyebrow. Not that Sam would even know what to do with a rakish scar if he ended up with one. He'd just cover it with hair anyway. "Sam?"

Footsteps drift towards the bathroom. But it's Castiel and not Sam who appears in the doorway.

"Sam has gone to the library," Castiel says.

"Son of a bitch," Dean tells the mirror.

"Did you need him?"

"Yeah, I need him to -" Dean gestures, in a way that's probably more irritated than helpful. Because admitting it is kind of embarrassing, even in front of the angel. Who won't have any idea _why_ it's embarrassing. "I can't freakin' shave, I have no finger coordination." He looks down at his stupid arms that are still fixing themselves and wonders if it's too early to saw off the hand part of the cast.

Castiel does his 'quietly sneak his way into your personal space' thing. Which he always manages to do in the bathroom for some bizarre reason. They should have _another_ talk about that.

"Perhaps I could assist you?"

Dean laughs, he can't help it. One quick burst that leaves Castiel with an eyebrow raised.

"Seriously?"

"It's not an overly complex task," Castiel says. Then he frowns down at the sink, at the tumbled mess of soap and razor that Dean barely has the coordination to pick up right now.

"Says the angel. Dude, exactly how many times have you shaved?"

"I can accomplish this," Castiel says firmly. As if he's offended by not only Dean's low opinion of his human skills, but by Dean's refusal to even consider him capable of giving assistance. On anyone else that expression would be hurt and offended.

Dean makes a noise, runs his fingers over his cheek, and - damn it - this is as bearded as he's been for years and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. Also, it itches like hell. Another day and he's going to start trying to scratch parts of his face off.

"If you start slicing pieces off my face you're using your angel powers to fix it."

"I won't injure you," Castiel says, voice still irritated. "I have some experience with a blade."

Which sounds pretty awesome, only then he ruins it by lifting the razor and staring at it like he doesn't have the slightest idea what he's doing.

Dean sighs.

"Dude, the more faces you make the less likely I'm going to let you near _my_ face with sharp instruments."

"I have considerably better control than you at present," Castiel points out. And, ok, fine, that's true, though probably not the point. They're talking about his desire for his face to stay where it is.

"But you have no idea what you're doing," Dean says.

Castiel stops looking at his razor like it's an alien artefact.

"The concept is simple enough."

"The concept is my face," Dean reminds him.

"Which is why I will be extremely careful," Castiel says firmly.

Dean glances down at his hands, one stuck in plaster the other still too bandaged to be any real good.

"Take your coat off," he says. Still not entirely sure if this is a good idea or not.

Castiel very carefully slips his coat off and then stands there holding it, like he doesn't have a clue what to do with it.

"Just throw it over the towels," Dean says. "And roll your sleeves up."

Castiel does as he's told. Though he spends a long, confused moment trying to _actually_ roll the material.

"You're going to need to run water in the sink," Dean offers.

Castiel obediently follows instructions with the single minded determination of a soldier. Slowly enough that Dean's swallowing, fidgeting restlessly, and wondering if this is the worst idea he's ever had. Because it's Castiel. There's just something inherently weird about that. This is like encouraging personal space violations.

Hideous, itchy man-beard, Dean tells himself firmly.

Steam rises and starts to fog the mirror. Dean has a brief moment of panic, because now he won't be able to see what Castiel's doing. But he grits his teeth and tips his head back; watches Castiel prod at the soap on his fingers.

"Today, Cas," he says, too fast and probably too loud.

Castiel touches him, gently at first, like he thinks Dean might flinch away like some sort of spooked gazelle - and seriously, seriously, that's the best comparison his brain could come up with? He breathes out, across Castiel's fingers, lets him draw him closer to the sink.

Castiel's carefully efficient, sliding fingers across Dean's cheeks and jaw, then down his throat. He spreads soap in some strangely precise and mathematical way that only he's aware of. Dean ends up swallowing under the sweep of his hand, not resisting, not pulling away. The angel takes the opportunity to get in close, really damn close. Dean kind of knew this was going to be weird. But Castiel is so much more _angel_ up close. He doesn't even pretend that he's not finding this quietly fascinating. He's watching with a sort of intensity Dean has never applied to anything in his life. He clears his throat and stares at the light fixture.

Castiel's hands are cold. Dean can feel his fingers through the slickness of the soap and on the bare edge of his neck.

"Cas -"

"Hush," Castiel says firmly.

Dean shuts his mouth, breathes out.

The first slow pull of razor is a test, gentle, an exploration of Dean's face. Of its tension and resilience. Dean can't help it, he tenses. It's not that he doesn’t trust Castiel. He does, he _really_ does. But the razor's sharp as hell and he's seen too many of Castiel's quietly bewildered faces. The angel may be a gagillion years old but he's also kind of slow when it comes to important things, like emotional expression and the fragility of human beings.

The razor reaches his jaw and stops - Dean holds his breath - until it carefully curves round it and lifts away.

Castiel pauses.

"Wash it off in the sink," Dean tells him.

Castiel looks at him, briefly, and then stares at the soapy, stubble-spattered blade he's holding. He lowers it and drags it through the water in two quick slides.

Dean can just see the white drifting apart in the water.

Castiel lifts the razor again, starts where he left off. The expression of concentration on his face would be freakin' hilarious if it wasn't Dean's skin on the line. The angel shifts a few steps, drifts all the way into Dean's personal space until they're touching, all focus and commitment. Like this is important, or like it's a religious experience - hell, maybe everything Castiel does is, by default, a religious experience. Dean tips his head to the side and Castiel's fingers accept the new angle, offer careful pressure, a drag of blade down skin. The long slow rasp of it has never sounded so loud.

He holds Dean still while he washes the razor again, fingers barely caught on his face, but Dean can feel every one of them.

The angel's thumb drifts and lays against the curve of his jaw, pressing where the skin is damp and soft and new. Castiel's the one that moves Dean's face then, careful but firm, like he's unravelled the strange simplicity of it. The draw of the blade is now slow, confident, pulling over the planes and edges of his face.

Castiel's close enough that Dean can feel every slow, flaring breath. A shiver of strange cold across his skin where Castiel has carved the soap away.

Dean lifts his head and carefully pulls his lip under his teeth; lets Castiel shave his upper lip, feels the cold sharp edge of the blade slide there, slow and precise. Dean holds his breath, moves wherever Castiel encourages him to, pulse thudding in his throat, skin too warm. It's almost completely quiet and he can hear the tiny noises Castiel is making. The shift of his shoes, the rasping of his shirt against Dean's arms and chest. The slow and completely human sound of him breathing. Dean tips his head back when Castiel urges him to with a thumb. All the way, until the angel has the vulnerable skin of his throat stretched out before him. Dean stays still under the slow, careful drag of metal. He listens to the thud of his own pulse and feels the slow tightening of his skin. It feels strange and unreal, and intimate in a way he has no references for.

Before Dean's ready for it Castiel sets the razor down with a quiet click. He lifts the damp edge of the towel and smoothes away what Dean can only assume are the white lines and loose hair that still cover his face.

There's no moisture in his throat at all. Castiel's fingertips linger on his cheeks, like they don't want to let him go. Like they're fascinated by what they've accomplished.

Dean's face is burning under them, bare and sensitive.

It takes him a second to realise he isn't stepping back either. He's just letting Castiel hold him, close enough that he can feel the angel breathing through his own chest. His eyes are focused on his own, in a way there's just no way to ever get used to. But Dean thinks maybe he'd like to try.

Castiel's name ends up caught somewhere in his throat.

The fingers on his face very slowly slide down; brush on the smooth line of his jaw before releasing him completely.

"Thank you," Castiel says. His voice is quiet and firm, serious and strangely formal in that angel way he has. Like Dean's given him a gift of some sort. Let him have something he wasn't expecting.

Dean's not sure what he's supposed to say to that.

Hell, he's not sure he can speak at all.

  



End file.
